Assassin-for-Hire
by Knead-Boric
Summary: Feeling rather in the dumps and rather drunk, Courier Six decides to answer to a mysterious letter that beckons him. A request to take up an assassination contract.
1. Chapter 1

The Courier remembered the letter he received very well. "Letter for a... 'Courier Six'? Anyone here named Courier Six?" he remembered the quivering paperboy asking.

"Over here kid," Six hailed from his booth, "Over here kid, the guy with a hole in his forehead trying to _enjoy_ his drink _in solitude_." announced Six. _Fucking orphans_ , he thought to himself at the time.

The child wasted no time attending to the slightly-annoyed man, handing over a clean envelope. It read "To Courier Six" on the back, in cursive, flawless cursive. It looked pretty professional. _Almost_ professional, if it weren't for the smudged, peeled dead skin on it.

"Alright, brat, d'ya know what's in this?"

"Absolutely no idea, sir. The man who gave it to me told me it was confidential. Gave me a complimentary 100 caps to not open it." the child replied.

 _100 caps to keep this dumb kid from reading it? Must be serious_ , the Courier pondered, _Bet it's another faction trying to convince me to save the Mojave **again**. Why can't they just contact me the conventional method? A simple 'Hi! How are you? Would you like to join our cause? Please, we promise you adventure, caps, and elongated backstories!' in person would've sufficed_.

The Courier reached into his pocket and pulled two caps out. They were moistened by his sweaty, booze-smeared hands. "Here's your tip, now get out."

"Thank you, sir" the child said as he hastily grabbed the caps and bolted to the exit. Most likely to deliver some other letters elsewhere.

* * *

Dear Mr. Courier Six,

I write to you with a proposal. To be brief: I would like for you to kill someone for me. You can find me at my room in the El Rey Motel across from Camp McCarran. I will be in the room behind the left-hand staircase. Knock three times and say "Room service, we heard that your carpet is dysfunctional" and I will let you in.

If you fail to find me then I guess you wouldn't have been able to do the job in the first place. If so, I spent my hard-earned money on that postboy for nothing, and in that case I would have only one thing to say to you: **go fuck yourself**.

We can speak payment in person.

Yours truly,

S. B.

* * *

And here he is, the amazing Courier Six, standing shabby in front of the ramshackle that is El Rey Motel.

 _Better be worth my time_ , he thought.

* * *

 **Author's note** : Here's one of my other spur-of-the-moment fics. This one is different though: it's hot-off-the-typewriter too!

Revision is the bane of creativity. Weed it out with some good ol' sleep deprivation! Or an illicit substance. Works just about the same. I'll probably update this next week. And who knows, it might become a weekly thing. Most likely not, however. I don't do schedules.

Hope you enjoyed. Comments and criticisms are welcomed.


	2. Chapter 2

_Why am I even here? This is stupid! This is-_

"Um, excuse me? You Courier Six? The guy I sent for? 'Cause if you're just some junkie vagrant - which would explain why you just kicked down my door and are now standing here, silent, dumbstruck and smelling of booze - you can get the hell out of my office!" cut a freakish Ghoul, sitting on a child-sized pink plastic chair next a bed stacked with papers.

Courier Six, cut from his thoughts and caught off-guard, quickly blabbered a response:

"Oh... Oh! Right, yeah, sorry 'bout that. I just came here for a job application-"

"It's not a job application. It's an assassination contract. Christ, you people..." interrupted the Ghoul again. He facepalmed, taking off some skin off his forehead. He must do that often, seeing as there's a hand-shaped indent on what was probably once a still-ghoulified yet less leper-like face.

"Right," the Courier huffed, pulling out a wet letter smeared in his sweat, "I received this. Thought I might take you up on that offer."

The Ghoul took the letter right off Six's hands. He inspects it for two seconds then tossed it onto the bed into the pile. The zombie pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

"Why the hell didn't you get the passphrase right? I mean, like, come on, how hard can it be?"

"I got it wrong?"

* * *

"Hello? I heard your bush wasn't working?" asked Courier Six, banging at a door.

"What? Who the hell are you? And 'your bush wasn't working'?" rasped a man from the other side.

"Yeah, you know, your bush, your balls, your ballsack, your nutsack, testes, carpet, clockweights, your **cock** weights, cojones, nads, gonades, sweetmeats, teabags, cherries, chicken nuggets, acorns-"

"Are you done?"

"... knackers, loins, love spuds, nuts, twins, watermelon, marbles, yarbles, yams, tests-"

"I swear to God..."

"... giggle berries, and testicles. You know, those kinds of things? Anyway I got a request to come here or something." he finished after an innumerable amounts of time. Half of it incoherent.

No response.

"Well," carried on Six, "guess Imma have to kick down this door!"

* * *

"Right, I stopped paying attention halfway through and got myself a drink. Anyway- wait, how long were you enumerating synonyms for balls for?" asked the Ghoul.

"About five straight minutes."

* * *

"... your crown jewels, your cubes, eggs, goolies, plums, gears, gearbox, jawbreakers, nadgers..."

* * *

"You know what?" said the annoyed Ghoul, "Never mind that, and let's get back to the question: Why the hell didn't you just say the passphrase correctly!? I mean, for crying out loud, I've even written it down on the letter I sent you!"

"Sheesh, alright, alright, I'm sorry. When you wrote 'we heard that your carpet was dysfunctional', I thought you meant 'we heard you've got ball problems' " Six responded, "Anywho, ya wrote something 'bout hiring me? For an assassination? Let's discuss that instead."

"Yes, step outside and we'll talk all about it. Name's Stilton Blue. You can call me Sue." Stilton replied, getting up and taking a bottle of booze with him.

"Is that whiskey?"

"No, bourbon. Guessing you partake, based on your smell alone. Want some?"

"Gladly."


	3. Chapter 3

"10,000 caps!?" Six muffled in surprise.

Sue and Six were walking down the roads of Outer Vegas, a block or two away from Freeside's East Gate. They had to stay silent for the early parts of their waltz. Ever since the NCR annexed the Mojave, patrols have increased around the Vegas Area. It's a surprise that they haven't cleared out El Rey of the junkies, McCarran was just two-dozen paces away and surely they should be sick of the stink by now.

"Aye, **ten-fucking-thousand** bottle caps. Rusty shine and all. Jingles in your pockets. Fresh off that wasteland dirt. Did you think I was kidding when I asked for an assassin? This is some serious business." whispered Stilton Blue.

"But Mr. Blue, I-"

"Sue. It's Sue. Please, I don't do that 'Mr. Formal' crap."

"Sue, how important is this guy be? I mean, I'm not the sort of guy you want; look at me!"

The men stopped on their tracks. They've arrived at the Gate. The Ghoul took the time to eye the vagabond-like Courier in all of his drunk, smelly, duster-wearing glory.

"Listen boy, from what I heard, you walked the Mojave and beyond drunk, after coming back from the dead; two bullets in your skull. People say you killed the Monster of the East at the Second Battle of Hoover Dam with one hand around his neck and the other holding a bottle of whiskey. You didn't do all that because you had a hard-on for the NCR, however, but because they promised you wealth, women, booze and chems. Wealth, women, booze and chems are my specialty; you're exactly the guy I need." whispered Stilton, zombie hands on Six's shoulder. They both turned their heads to the screeching of the Gate. "Like I said: 10,000 caps."

 _Shi-it. I hit the jackpot - I think. Guy's got a grimy business suit; must be some Pre-War zillionaire philanthropist - hopefully. He coulda given House a run for his money - maybe._ thought Six in excitement.

As the men walked through Freeside, the usual questions were asked. ' _What method do you want me to use?_ ', ' _Should I get rid of the body?_ ', ' _Should I make it look like an accident?_ ' and ' _Will there be any penalties if I fuck up?_ '. So on, so forth.

As they walked past the King's School of Impersonation, towards the Strip's Gate, they came at a stop to face each other. Securitrons with the cartoon faces of NCR soldiers on-screen guarded the entrance.

"But who is this guy? Why's he so important."

"Don't worry, Sixer. Sixer, I can call you that, right?"

"Courier Six, Six, Courier, **the** Courier, **the** Courier Six, Sixer McCourier... You can call me any variation of 'Courier Six' you want. I'm pretty used to it. Or you could call me Dave. It's what my mom named me."

"Huh, never expected the _Great_ Courier Six to be a  Dave..." chuckled Sue.

"No, but seriously, who is this guy? Why the high price? He some sort of big shot? Evil overlord trying to take over New Vegas? Mob boss gone wild? Oh! Let me guess: Enclave! Those guys pop up everywhere, I swear..."

"No, it's better, much better, more better. Listen," hushed Sue. They were at a halt in front of the Strip Gate. Sue looked around to make sure no one was listening before he whispered into the Courier's ear: "This guy, your target, he's a **fucking** menace. Don't take him lightly, he's the most dangerous thing I have ever encountered. And that means **a lot** coming from **_me_**. I mean, look at me; **do I look like the type that gets fucked with**?"

"Who-who is it?" quivered Six.

"Behind you, Dave."

Six turned to see a grizzled old hobo sat at a fire in a squatter camp.

 _You have got to be kidding me..._

* * *

 **Author's note** : If anyone has noticed: yes, I have been publishing a new chapter once per week, much to my dismay. It's surprisingly fun making this off the top of my head, fresh-off-the-typewriter. Expect more to come. No promises that it'll remain on a consistent schedule, if at all.

Hope you enjoyed. Comments and criticisms are welcomed.

 **UPDATE** : I've removed the part ' _Attempts by Six to negotiate a higher price were surprisingly never rebutted. Back and forth, the pay went from between 10,000 to 25,000. But eventually they reached to an understanding: 10,000 for the job and an extra 15,000 if he's not seen. The bourbon they shared in the walk probably helped the Ghoul's generous approach to negotiating._ '.

Why? Because. Because I didn't like it.


	4. Chapter 4

There comes a time in life where one would ask themselves: _what in the Sam Hill am I doing here?_

That's what Courier Six was thinking when he thought about his predicament. Sitting at a table at the Atomic Wrangler, listening to Sue ramble on about the grizzled hobo's backstory, Dave couldn't help but think " _This guy's fucking crazy!_ ". And how can he be surprised? The ghoul's a raging alcoholic - as evidenced by the bundle of shot glasses he's drunk from polluting the casino's floor - for crying out loud! Who can trust in such a person? Six can't, that's for sure.

"... and that's why you have to kill the guy. He's too dangerous." Sue finally finished.

"I'm sorry, what? I didn't quite catch what you were saying."

Courier Six was never the greatest of listeners; he was dozing off during the entirety of this meeting.

" I said: Jack is a really dangerous guy, and you'll have to take him out. Take him out discretely and effectively, that's all I ask. After that, you get your 10,000 caps, I go home and drink to a job well done and you can be on your way and do the same. Understood, Dave?" he asked, taking a piece of fried squirrel - beer-battered, of course - and swallowing it whole, bones and all.

"Yeah, yeah," Six waved off, "but _why_ exactly do I have to kill him? Sorry, I didn't quite get it the first time."

"Well if you insist..."

* * *

 _"It all started when I was a young man, before the War... The government was experimenting on people, and I-"_

* * *

"I'm gonna stop you right there, Sue, I'm gonna stop you right there, but I don't care, Sue, I really don't care, Sue, like, if I'm being honest right now, Sue, I don't care, like, I **really** , really don't care, Sue. Okay, Sue? I hope you understand, Sue, but I don't need to know the full details of things, Sue. Like, I really don't give a shit, Sue, I don't need to know the whole backstory between you and Old Hobo McGee - oh, I'm sorry, I mean Old Hobo _Jack_ , Sue - sitting outside, Sue. I hope you understand, Sue. You know, Sue? It's just that I don't think that the information you're giving me will really help, Sue. Alright, Sue? Alright."

"..."

"... Sue..."

"I-"

" **Oh my God, Sue, we already talked about this, Sue! Everything that needs to be discussed has been discussed, Sue! Like, Sue, seriously, Sue, I don't need the info you're giving me, Sue. I really don't need it, Sue. Okay, Sue? I really don't need it!** "

"You're an asshole, you know that?"

"Well, Sue, that's all relative; I'm gonna stop you right-"

"Alright, alright, just shut up, asshole, and do your job!" Sue whisper-yelled as he slammed a silenced .22 pistol on the table.

"This'll be easy." Six replied assuredly as he got up, stuffing the pistol in his pants.

* * *

"This'll be easy," Six hesitantly murmured to himself as he eyed a hobo sitting at a fire. "All by his lonesome, too. That'll make it ten times easier."

 _No one's around, now's the time; you're golden_ , he thought, assuring himself.

He approached the hobo, Jack, and pulled out his silenced pistol.

* * *

 **Author's note** : Another chapter after a long absence. Straight-off-the-press, as per usual. I don't know why I stopped, nor do I know why I started writing this again, but I'm having fun.

Just to let you know, that Sue Rant was supposed to be longer, but my Internet crashed and I was forced to restart; a shame, it was over a dozen lines.

Hope you enjoyed. Comments and criticisms are welcomed.


	5. Chapter 5

An undying man is a man with little to no worries, a demimonde. An undying man especially doesn't expect someone to try and kill them with a peashooter - but to be fair, he was kind of expecting it, just not the way it went down, though.

Jack has lived through everything you could imagine: the Wastelands of the former United States of America, every single one of them - DC, Boston, the Mojave, Caesar's Lands, Texas, Chicago -, you name it. Jack has lived through it all.

And in that time, Jack has lived through perils no ordinary man could ever imaginably survive. But he did it, good ol' 250-year-old Jack was unkillable. Which is why he wondered:

"Did you really think a dinky .22 bullet would kill me, ya weirdo? Why'd ya do it?" he asked in a deep, dramatic, authoritative, baritone voice.

Dave was only semi-conscious to hear that. He'd been drifting in and out for the last couple of hours. He was tied to a chair, he was able to guess, but he didn't know where. _Where am I? W- what is this place?_

Shit. Courier Six's nose was invaded by the choking reek of shit. A sewer would be his best guess.

But assessing the situation was quite difficult, especially when the grizzled hobo smacked the mailman's face.

"Answer me, asshole. Why did you try to kill me, and who sent you?"

"Meh-meh, meh, m- I- I- con- con-" it was hard for Dave to talk, Jack knocked the living days out of him.

"Fucking useless, absolutely fucking useless; you must be one of those junkies that attack anyone and everyone on sight."

Jack paced around the damp, shit-stained room. His shoes were caked in brown stuff. It wasn't dirt, obviously. Six took the time to lift his head as much as he could - it wasn't much, but he could make out some stuff around the room: A table laid to the back corner, with metal objects on it and a bottle of whiskey - Courier Six's whiskey. The objects looked... strange, some of them gave off a weird, faint, greenish glow, and softly hummed incessantly, and another glowed slightly red.

Jack noticed Six's gaze, looked at the strange object then back at Six, and smirked. He walked over to the table, and again looked at Six, and smirked. Jack whirled himself around and floated his way to Courier Six, now holding a small metal prod in his hand.

"You like this pretty little thing? It's a gift I got from some men in suits, great guy - except for the old one, he was as emotionless as wood. Know what it does?"

Six mumbled, Jack smacked him across the face.

"No talking, this is a dramatic moment. Okay, you listening now? Good: This thing, this thing right here? It can make you forget anything I tell you to forget - I can make you forget who you even are, I can make you forget your mama, boy, it honestly depends on what I'll make you forget and how much. I used to use it on them government boys, but I haven't seen them for years; I honestly thought you were one of them - I guess I'm just missing the action. Still, I can't ever be too careful."

Six didn't respond.

"Hey. HEY! Wake up, pay attention when I'm talking to you!" his voice filled Six's ears, chilling him to the bone. God, was his voice scary.

Six lifted his eyelids a quarter-way. _My head hurts, everything hurts. I can't open my eyes, they're too heavy._

"Whatever, not like you'll remember this anyway." Jack pressed a button, and the prod beeped and blooped, its top came up, revealing a small, red glowing screen. "When I flash this thing, you won't remember this encounter. In fact, you won't remember anything from the past 20 years - I'm taking some precautions here - you dress like a stunted, 20-year-old male hooker either way, so I'm sure you'll be fine; you're in Vegas, baby, you won't be homeless like me at least - they've got demand but no supply, you're in luck."

Jack placed the metal stick up next Dave's face. The hobo took his time putting his finger on the button, for dramatic effect. _This guy is a blowhard, seriously._ Six clenched his fist, awaiting whatever was about to come.

But Jack didn't press the button. He had a quizzical look on his face, then sighed annoyingly.

"Fuck, this isn't working," Jack mumbled under his breath, in a nasally voice, different from the imposing one he was putting on earlier.

Jack stumbled over to the table, head down and looking defeated. He opened the bottle of whiskey and took a swig.

After a long minute of awkward silence, Six finally spoke up:

"Mind giving me some? I'm getting thirsty."

* * *

 **Author's note** : Got bored and check one of my many stories that I haven't updated in months (and honestly will probably never finish - even so, it'd be at a snail's fickle and arbitrary pace), so I decided to write this on the spot.

Hope you enjoy this slightly. Comments and criticisms are welcomed, but honestly I don't care about them for this particular story; I wouldn't have made uploaded this hot-off-the-press had I really cared.


End file.
